


make the edges less sharp

by stevenstamkos



Series: let's set the world on fire (tonight) [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016 World Cup of Hockey, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevenstamkos/pseuds/stevenstamkos
Summary: They lose, narrowly, and Jo’s hurt and angry.Nate wants to take that hurt away. Nate finds a way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the day after [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8084536), but can be read as a standalone.
> 
> Implied Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
> 
> Title from "This Is Why I Need You" by Jesse Ruben

“FUCK!”

Eichs waits until he passes through the door to the locker room before letting loose, tearing his helmet off and chucking it angrily into the bin where a few guys have already thrown their dirty sweaters. His face is red, sweaty curls sticking up all over his head. Davo silently fishes out Eichs’s helmet and brings it to him in his stall. There’s a little moment when Eichs doesn’t do anything more than glare at the offending piece of equipment in Davo’s hands, but he eventually takes it and sets it down heavily.

Nate’s ripping the tape off his legs in fast, jerky movements, balling it up and squeezing it in his fist like a stress ball. They were so close, damn it. So _fucking_ close. Just one stupid fucking post away from a tying goal, and maybe even an overtime win.

In the corner of the room, Muzz is sitting in his stall, still in his big goalie pads, eyes on the floor. The defeated slump in his shoulders is something Nate’s never seen on him before, not even when he was following the Penguins’ playoff run. Fuck, but it must hurt, being pulled after allowing four goals on four shots.

Nate can see Johnny circling the room giving out hugs, and when it’s his turn, he crushes the smaller boy to his chest. “Wish this was for a goal and a win,” he whispers, and Johnny squeezes him once.

Jo’s silent when he storms past Nate on his way to the showers, and Nate has to lunge to catch his elbow. “Hey,” he says softly, pleading.

The set of Jo’s shoulders is tight, and he’s practically vibrating with anger as he shakes Nate’s hand off. Nate understands. Jo never took defeat well, not in juniors or even when they played midget together. Every loss was personal to a guy like Jo.

That doesn’t mean Nate wants him stewing in rage like that all night.

The boys are silent as they clean up and get dressed, and their post-game interviews are blessedly short, their answers media-approved but maybe a little curt here and there. The bus ride is fucking miserable. Jo takes a seat next to Nate but immediately sticks his headphones on and turns his volume up, and Nate’s left staring at the line of his back all the way back to the hotel. It’s not like Nate’s really in the mood to be chatty either but...

A part of him, a secret little—or not so little, if he’s being honest—part of him clenches with hurt whenever Jo’s unhappy.

When the bus pulls up to the hotel, everyone gets up in a hurry, obviously eager to get off the bus and put this night behind them. Amidst all the tall figures collecting jackets and looking for lost phones, Nate sees Eichs swaying into Davo’s space, his head resting lightly on Davo’s shoulder. Davo catches him staring. Nate looks away first.

In his room, he pulls on an Avs tee and a pair of comfortable shorts, but he doesn’t feel right crawling into bed. He’s exhausted, sure, but his mind’s still caught on the game, fragmented memories coming through—the puck bouncing off Muzz’s skate, Kucherov scooping up a rebound, Kuznetsov firing from the boards. He needs to get his mind off the game, but the game’s not letting him.

Nate blows out a breath and grabs his room key. If he can’t sleep...

The hallway is empty except for Eichs, who’s standing in front of one of the dozens of doors leading off the hall. He's wearing an Oilers snapback for some reason. Nate’s about to go over to ask if maybe Eichs wants to go somewhere and grab a bite or _something_ to stop this night from tumbling end over end, but then the door’s opening and Davo fills the doorway, looking soft and worn at the edges, hair mussed and a tired frown on his face. Eichs leans in immediately, presses his mouth to Davo’s and Davo lets go of the door and—melts right into Eichs.

Okay then. That answers some questions.

Nate backs away before either of them can see him, but he needn’t have worried—Davo’s pulling Eichs into his room, still kissing, and the door thumps quietly shut behind them.

Well shit. Nate runs a hand through his hair. Davo and Eichs. He thought they hated each other. Are they fucking? This is definitely not a new thing. He wonders if it’s like him and Jo and their situation—whatever it is.

As if pulled there, his feet take him to Jo’s room, and he’s knocking before he’s even aware of what he’s doing.

Larks opens the door. He gives Nate a truly unimpressed look. “You looking for Jon?” he drawls.

Nate has a surreal moment of _Who the fuck is Jon?_ before remembering that Jo’s not Jo to everyone, that these Team North America teammates of theirs barely know them. They’re not in Halifax anymore.

“He went to get something to eat,” Larks continues.

That’s when Jo rounds the corner. He’s got his head down, struggling to open a vending machine candy bar. The corner of the wrapper’s still held between his teeth when he looks up and sees Nate standing there. He stops short, only a few feet away.

“Hey,” Nate says.

Jo’s still staring, a little frozen. His eyes dart to the open door, but Larks is filling it. He lowers the candy bar from his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” There’s an edge to Jo’s voice, like he’s tamping down on something large and ugly. Nate’s seen this before, Jo coiled tight after coming home from world junior champs without medalling, again and again.

“Wanted to check up on you.” Nate bridges the gap between them, takes the candy bar from Jo’s fingers and opens it for him. “Just make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” Jo doesn’t even look at the candy that Nate’s holding out.

“Ookay...” Larks coughs a little, looking away. “I’m gonna go crash with Auston. You have the room tonight, Jon.” He disappears into the room for a minute and emerges with a small bundle tucked under his arm. He doesn’t look back at them when he walks away.

Jo slips around Nate and enters his room, and well, he’s not kicking Nate out exactly, so Nate follows him in. The candy bar goes on the dresser, open but uneaten. Jo runs a hand through his hair, breathes deeply, holds the tension in his body. His eyelashes are very long where they lay against his cheeks.

When Jo’s upset, he runs and hides like a wounded animal. It’s why he ran away from Syracuse this year, why he keeps running away from Nate tonight. But at some point, he always comes limping home, exhausted and desperate for a gentle touch.

Nate takes his hand.

This time, Jo doesn’t pull away. He looks up at Nate, and he’s still wound up so tight, all that anger and frustration under his skin. Nate wants to take him apart, take that away, leave behind the soft smiling Jo he loves best.

Jo kisses like he’s fighting, aggressive like it’s the last few seconds of the third and they’re down by one. He kisses like he skated tonight, all controlled desperation. Nate grabs his jaw, holds him still so it doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in Jo.

“Let me help,” he whispers into Jo’s mouth. “Let me in.” Jo blinks, lets out a tremulous breath against Nate’s lips, and finally a bit of that tension bleeds out of him.

He goes down easy when Nate pushes him to the bed—Nate really hopes this is Jo’s bed and not Larks’s, because that would be awkward—and lays there quietly as Nate gets comfortable on top of him. There’s a hint of a blush on his face. His stubble makes a soft rasping sound as it rubs up against Nate’s as Nate presses a kiss to his jaw.

“What do you want tonight?” Nate asks, sitting up a bit. They’ve done this a few times, but not enough for it to be routine. Not enough to satisfy how often Nate wants to be here.

Jo’s still tense, body rigid and hard (and not in the fun way, Nate mourns). He looks away, swallows, before dipping his fingers under the waistband of Nate’s shorts to stroke over the bare skin of his hip.

Sometimes, when Jo gets like this—worked up, angry, throat tight with hurt and disappointment—words fail him. Luckily, Nate’s pretty fluent in Jo.

He slides Jo’s shirt up and follows with his mouth, nuzzles his abs, drops a kiss to his navel and rubs the bit of stubble he’s got against his sensitive nipples. Jo hisses softly, slides his fingers into Nate’s short hair. Nate sucks a mark onto his collarbone as he pulls the shirt over Jo’s head, and Jo lets him, goes easy—so easy.

“Gonna take care of you tonight, k?” Nate whispers into Jo’s throat. Jo’s nodding before Nate’s even done talking, and with every second that passes, every press of Nate’s lips, the tension flows from his body.

Jo grabs the hem of Nate’s shirt and lifts, and Nate gets the memo—sheds his shirt, goes right back down to tease Jo’s nipples again. They’re really fucking sensitive, and Nate’s a little in love with that fact. Jo’s breaths are hitching in his throat, and he’s making little hiccuping sounds that he’s trying to suppress.

“You got lube?” Nate murmurs as he kisses his way down to the waistband of Jo’s shorts, jacking Jo slowly through the material. He really, really hopes Jo came prepared. Nothing says “mood killer” more than having to do the walk of shame with a raging boner so you can collect lube from your own room.

Jo’s eyes are wide and trained on the ceiling, and he’s gasping softly with every stroke. “Yeah,” he manages eventually. “Bag, outer pocket.” Nate has to get off the bed to go through Jo’s bag, and Jo lets out a whine when he takes his hands away.

“Shh, I’ll be right back.”

Jo’s bag is a giant fucking mess. It looks like everything’s been tossed in there without rhyme or reason (not that Nate can blame him, his own bag looks the same). Still, it takes forever to find the lube, and Jo’s not a patient person. When Nate finally gets back to him, he’s kicked his shorts off and is busy palming himself. Nate grabs his wrist.

“Stop that. I’m taking care of you, remember?”

Jo nods a little too quickly and tangles his fingers in the sheets. Nate nudges his knees with his own, and Jo instantly spreads his legs so Nate can settle between them. If this were their first time doing this, Nate would be blown away by how quickly Jo’s responded. Actually, he thinks he was blown away the first time.

The lube’s a little cold when Nate pours it onto his fingers, and as he’s waiting for it to warm up, he bites gently at the jut of Jo’s hip. “How are you doing?” he asks.

Jo sighs softly as Nate’s breath ghosts over the head of his leaking cock. “Good. Want.”

Nate presses a kiss to his dick, swipes his tongue through the mess collecting at its tip. Jo chokes on his breath. He muffles a groan when Nate presses a slick finger to his hole, and his legs spread wider in invitation.

It’s so easy to have Jo like this, open and wanting, all that hard tension gone and replaced with Nate, only Nate. It’s so easy to slip one, then two, then three fingers inside him, feel him clench up and then relax to let Nate in, to hear his breathless gasps dial up a notch every time Nate finds that part of him that responds beautifully with every thrust.

Jo’s fingers are twisted in the sheets now, his lashes fluttering madly, bottom lip clenched between his teeth. “Please,” he whispers, legs trembling with the effort of keeping them spread and immobile. “Please, oh, please, Nate, Nate, please—”

Nate keeps him on edge for minutes, fuck, maybe hours, he doesn’t know. Jo needs this, needs to be taken care of, needs to know that Nate’s right here, that Nate’s going to catch him when he’s falling. Jo needs to know that Nate would do anything for him. (Fuck, Nate really _would_ do anything for him.)

“Nate,” Jo’s voice is hoarse from moaning, and his lashes are damp. “Please, Nate, I can’t—I need—”

“Got you, Jo, I got you,” Nate says, and with his free hand begins to stroke Jo’s cock. Jo’s shaking, high whimpers caught in his throat, and Nate loves him so much, fuck.

When he comes, writhing on the ends of Nate’s fingers, Nate’s other hand twisting on a tight downstroke, Jo’s silent. His pretty mouth is open, jaw slack, eyes screwed shut, and Nate’s not sure if he’s breathing. He keeps up his movements until Jo comes down, starts flinching, oversensitive. Then he pulls back.

“You okay?”

Jo takes a few long minutes to process Nate’s question, but he nods eventually. “I’m good, thanks.” His voice is low and rough.

Nate’s about ready to come in his shorts, and he doesn’t stop Jo when his fingers land on the waistband. Jo’s smile is soft, so soft, and lazy as he traces the outline of Nate’s dick, pressing a hand to him. Nate gasps at the pressure. Jo moves closer, curls up in Nate’s arms, and shoves his hand into Nate’s shorts.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to come.

“God, fuck,” he breathes out when his head’s done spinning. “You made me ruin my shorts.”

“You can borrow a pair of mine,” Jo says, and he’s the lovely, pliant, glowing Jo that Nate’s been looking for all night.

After that, Nate can only kiss him. For his generosity.

(He’s not thinking about Jo stealing his clothes at the Combine, stopping to take a picture between interviews and telling all and sundry that he’s wearing Nate’s shorts. That it’s Nate’s clothes on him, marking him. Nate’s definitely not thinking about that.)

“Stay the night?”

Nate nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

Nate should tell him he doesn’t want to stay just this night. That he wants to stay every night by Jo’s side. Nate doesn’t.


End file.
